Category: Spring 2024

I stand in the deep vegetation at the creek’s edge
stunned by the countless shades of green
and by the tangled lushness of it all.
A mere six weeks ago, I was hunting
for the first wild flower, hoping one had poked up
through the still brown and matted grass.
And look now, what the spring has wrought
in what feels like a blink of my awestruck eyes.
God, I love May! How could You write Your Yes
more clearly? How could one see this
and doubt Your being!

Every time I wrote the date today
I thought of you and felt a smile spread
across my face, warm as honey.
Just think, it was over a century ago,
probably on a day as lovely as this one,
that you were born, gracing the world
with a loveliness all your own. I miss you.
But oh, how I carry you in my heart!
How I feel your arms surrounding me!
How I know, more deeply with every
passing day, how magnificent you were!
And how indebted and grateful I am
for all the gifts you so generously gave, to me,
and to all whose lives your courage and gentleness
touched. Happy Birthday, Marion May.
I love you.

Listening to her heart, the rhododendron was at ease,
even though the work was complex and new.
She trusted, not as one trusts a mere belief,
but as one trusts from experience,
that the next step would make itself known.

Sometimes she had to stretch herself, to reach
higher and farther than she thought she could.
Often she couldn’t see how things would turn out.
But it was the challenges that made the work fun.

Just days ago, after all, she was a green bud.
And now, here she was, her petals pink and broad,
glistening in the morning sun.

Had you asked her, she would not have been able
to tell you how a bud transforms into a flower.
She didn’t even know then that a flower
was what she would become.

She only knew that life’s patterns
were drawn in wisdom and love and that her task
was to listen for the harmonies and to let them guide her.
And so she worked with a sense of spacious ease,
centered and content, and filled with quiet joy.

Wild roses tumble from tree limbs now
and cascade on their vines down the hills,
their white petals accenting the lush
foliage that has overtaken the world.
“Summer,” they breathe, although
its official start is still a month away.
I inhale the warmth of the green air,
watch the sunlight play on the roses’ petals,
and smile, feeling the slide of the seasons.

I come inside after gazing
at the newly opened iris,
the season’s first, just in time
to catch a conversation
floating from the laptop
on my kitchen table.
“Happiness,” Mo is saying,
“isn’t about getting what you want.”
He pauses slightly and smiles.
“It’s about loving what you have.”
(How could we not!)
Quietly, words from a card pinned
above my desk flow through my mind:
“Look around you.
Appreciate what you have.
Nothing will be the same
in a year.” I look around,
my eyes brushing everything
with thanks so deep it nearly spills
right over the brim.

When I wake to a fresh blue sky
and the morning is dazzled with emerald
leaves dancing on a cool breeze
that carries the scent of white lilacs
and the songs of countless birds,
joy floods my being, and I know
that all the highest promises are true
and all the coming hours are blessed,
whatever they may hold.

They stand for nothing,
not for a price or a system,
nor for any particular position,
or concept or creed. They obey
only the law of their being:
Flower freely. And so they show
their colors, and feed the ants and bees,
and decorate the roadsides, and dance
in the morning breeze, asking nothing,
simply being, and singing their songs.
And when the stars rise and twinkle
above them, they dream sweet dreams,
and their hearts are filled with joy.

Look what she’s done now!
As if the crocuses and tulips,
the daffodils, violets and speedwell
weren’t enough, as if we weren’t already
joy-struck with the magnolias and the
blossoming of apple trees, cherry and pear,
now May spreads the field with red poppies
and wild phlox. She dresses every day with
new garlands from her basket, laughing
her love songs, whispering Happy Birthday
to the earth. Such limitless generosity!
And all we can do is marvel and be glad.

Imagine the thrill of learning
that you get to do the very last dance.
“Leave them laughing,” the teacher said.
“Let them be filled with gaiety
whenever the thought of a tulip
crosses their minds.”

And donning her white ruffled
petticoat and a swirling cape
of clear red, the season’s last tulip
did just that.

There’s something to be said for humility.
Take the little white violets, for instance.
They don’t shout. They don’t mind
that they’re not as tall as the grass,
or as bright as the dandelions, or
purple, like their cousins.
They don’t worry whether anyone
notices them or not, whether the sun
shines or the rain falls. They simply open
their sweet little petals, perfume the air,
and say to each other, “Isn’t it a lovely day!”